


There's no place like home

by Raffobaffo



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: (I tried), Gen, Giovanni Pascoli, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Memories, Past, Poetry, Sicily - Freeform, i tiptoed around the concept but there's nothing clearly stated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 19:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13417809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raffobaffo/pseuds/Raffobaffo
Summary: Peter dreams. He dreams of the world outside, of his life outside this cell of glass.(Or, some considerations on Peter's life accompanied by the ending of the poem "Italy" by Giovanni Pascoli, translated by yours truly)





	There's no place like home

**Author's Note:**

> This dude really enjoys comments, don't be shy!  
> The poem is actually set in Northern Italy, but we'll ignore this information for the sake of Sicily. And Peter. And i ask Pascoli for forgiveness if i desacrated his poem, i couldn't find a translation.

_Prima d’andare, vieni al camposanto, / Before leaving, come to the graveyard,  
s’hai da ridire come qua si tiene. / if you'll have to tell how things are done here._

   
He remembers Sicily, walking down dusty roads, the perfume of the sea.  
He remembers the apricots and melons, so rich in color and in flavor.  
He remembers the warm wind passing through his hair, salt sticking to his skin, climate too hot compared to New York's summers. The sun high, shining on the burnt ground, the sandy surroundings too bright to be admired without sunglasses. The air quivering, dancing illusions created by hot waves.

   
 _Stridono i bombi intorno ai fior d’acanto, / Bumblebees chirp around acanthus flowers,  
ronzano l’api intorno le verbene. / bees buzz around vervains._

   
He remembers the tiny villages in stone and terracotta, with the old women sitting on the doorsteps, sewing, with their husbands in the square playing cards. They stared at him as he strolled down those streets, chin up, proud, even if he was only “the American”. His family was known as the American one. His grandfather had made sure to bring the best of Sicily with him, many years before.

Yellowish weeds grew on the corners of the houses, white and red, perched upon the hills. The streets were made up of so many stairs. His shirt always stuck to his back. He disliked sweating, he felt dirty. He still does.

   
 _E qui tra tanto sussurrio riposa / And in this whispering rests  
la cara nonna che ti volle bene. / the dear grandmother who loved you._

   
Peter remembers the warm smile of his grandmother when she said he was just like his father, and would grow up to be a great man. 

His grandparents had come back to Italy, once they decided grandfather could leave the affairs in the hands of father. They survived the business, they deserved to go back home. He didn't get to know them much, only during summer.  
Peter liked his grandmother a lot, because her arancini were delicious, better than anything back home. Better yet, her cannoli. He was a bit of a sweet tooth back then.

His father used to keep his emotions hidden, eyes sharper than a knife. (a knife, like the one he didn't manage to use.)  
He remembers the day they buried her. He was still unable to fully grasp the concept of death. His father didn't cry, and neither did he.

   
 _O Molly! O Molly! Prendi su qualcosa, / Oh Molly! Oh Molly! Take something,  
prima d’andare, e portalo con te. / before you go, and keep it with you._

   
His face was always so pudgy. His aunts and grandaunts and distant relatives loved to pinch his cheeks and give him kisses. He disliked the smell of old ladies. They kept offering sweets and candy, and he liked them more than before. After all, getting pinched was worth it.

He doesn't recognize himself when he looks in the mirror now. His face is emaciated, cheekbones and circles under his eyes taking up the space in his face. He doesn't like the look in his eyes, always wide and unfocused.  
He avoids his reflection.

Maybe that is why he looks so unkempt, hair undone, slight stubble, instead of that meticulous look he used to wear before. (Before, before.)  
There is little of his previous life with him now, aside from memories, colorful flashes that assail him for apparently no reason.

   
 _Non un geranio né un boccio di rosa, / Not a geranium nor a rose bud,  
prendi sol un non-ti-scordar-di-me! / take only a Forget-me-not!_

   
The sensation of the sand between his toes. Running was always too difficult, when it was dry. Dino humored him, because somehow he managed to. 

Dino used to come along with him to Sicily, while his parents usually stayed in New York. Even if he was younger, he always managed to do everything Peter couldn't. But it was okay, because after laughing, he tried to help him.

However, Peter was always the prettier child, therefore he caught all the compliments and the kisses, another reason why Dino laughed at him. (Dino was the handsome one. Peter was the pretty one.)

   
 _"Ioe, bona cianza!..." "Ghita, state bene!..." / “Ioe, good chance!...” “Ghita, be well!...”_  
"Good bye" "L’avete presa la ticchetta?" / “Good bye” “Have you bought the ticket?”  
"Oh yes" "Che barco?" "Il prinzessin Irene" / “Oh yes” “Which boat?” “The princessin Irene”

   
Then Dino stopped coming. He had better stuff to do, like chasing all the pretty girls in Washington Heights. Jeanie, Jeanie he said.  
But Peter kept going, because he liked Sicily. He couldn't bring himself to learn italian properly, remaining stuck on the silver line between speaking two languages as a native speaker, unable to translate his thoughts from one language to the other, blocked by a communication barrier caused by knowing too much but not enough at the same time.  
Laughing at his italian relatives messing up with english but not having the patience to correct them. Rascal.

 

_L’un dopo l’altro dava a Ioe la stretta / One after the other take Ioe's hand._  
lunga di mano. "Salutate il tale" / “Say goodbye”  
"Yes, servirò" "Come partite in fretta!" / “Yes, I will” “You're leaving so soon!” 

 

Growing with a mask on gave him some bad habits. Audacious and bold, he went around like a king, with a confidence he truthfully lacked. He got used to wearing the mask at home too, allowing himself to take it off only around his mother.  
She was the most beautiful creature that had ever existed. Even a wife can't be compared to a mother. Not to his mother at least, the one who sheltered him as long as she could, until she couldn't anymore, when the cancer won the fight.

_Don't leave me so soon._ He was not ready. (He was never ready.)

He wasn't ready for the loneliness, when he got married and moved. He wasn't ready to keep the mask on forever, because he couldn't afford to slip away from it or his wife would have seen his true colors. The colors of sensitivity, of weakness.

   
 _Scendean le donne in zoccoli le scale / Women in clogs came down the stairs  
per veder Ghita. Sopra il suo cappello / to see Ghita. On her hat  
c’era una fifa con aperte l’ale. / there was a lapwing with spread wings._

   
One day, he met her. He was visiting Ragusa, old enough to go around alone, without neither Dino nor his parents, getting lost in the bright alleys in a lazy pace. The buildings were so high he could only see paths of the sky, cut in geometrical rivers on which the clouds floated gently.

He found her there, a tourist; someone like him, looking for a homeland. Her name was Rosalie, and her eyes were black and warm and deep and all of her spoke of Italy to him. And yet, just like him, she came from overseas. She wasn't from New York. 

They didn't let go of each other anyway. 

   
 _"Se vedete il mi’ babbo... il mi’ fratello... / “If you see my father... my brother...  
il mi’ cognato..." "Oh yes" "Un bel passaggio / my brother in law...” “Oh yes” “You'll have  
vi tocca, o Ghita. Il tempo è fermo al bello" / a nice trip, dear Ghita. The weather is fine”_

   
He remembers once walking in a wheat field with his eyes covered, Rosalie beside him, guiding him. The straws tickled his legs and his bare feet. They sat under an ancient olive tree, the foliage protecting them from the sun, throwing elaborate shadows on the ground. 

They spoke that silly mixture between english and italian. Sicilian too, that dialectal inflection with words that sounded so funny and melodious to them. (It didn't matter if the rest of Italy thought of mafia when they heard it.)  
It didn't matter, since Peter knew damn well his family. He wasn't ashamed, it was something that would turn up very useful in his future.

   
 _"Oh yes" Facea pur bello! Ogni villaggio / “Oh yes” It was nice! Every village  
ridea nel sole sopra le colline. / shone under the sun over the hills.  
Sfiorian le rose da’ rosai di maggio. / brushing the roses of the may gardens_

   
It did end up very useful to him. He started after high school, while he was looking for a college. His father decided it was time for him to start meddling with the business. Poor mama boy wasn't prepared for the job, but he did his best.

Nino is a hard man. Was, thanks to Adebisi and O'Reily. Had always been, as Peter knows well. He taught him the good dose of machismo that never left. They never had a real relationship. Nino only taught him what he needed to know on the field.

When they were at home, he cohabited with his son and his wife, but payed very little attention to his son's life. Or maybe he did, but he never intervened, always only listening on the side, keeping all his thoughts for himself.

His father knew how to dwell in silence.

   
 _Sweet sweet... era un sussurro senza fine / Sweet sweet... it was a never ending wisper  
nel cielo azzurro. Rosea, bionda, e mesta, / in the blue sky. Rosy, blonde and demure,  
Molly era in mezzo ai bimbi e alle bambine. / Molly was in the middle of the children._

   
Peter was always in the spotlight, wherever he went. Be it because of his origin- in the United States he was italian, in Italy he was american- or because of his status, the son of Nino Schibetta.  
He never was in the spotlight for being Peter. Being Peter wasn't enough, or maybe it was just not interesting.

Luckily for him, Peter was enough for Rosalie, it was enough as they danced a wild tarantella on the notes of an off-key accordion and the rhythm of a skillfully played tambourine. Her skirt twisted and turned so beautifully, and so did her long, black hair, ending up on her face as she smiled at him.

That was a moment for sweating he didn't dislike.

   
 _Il nonno, solo, in là volgea la testa / The grandfather, lonely, turned his white head.  
bianca. Sonava intorno mezzodì. / The noon bells could be heard.  
Chiedeano i bimbi con vocìo di festa: / The children, festive, asked:_

   
The last time Peter went to Italy, he was witnessing the peace before the storm. Grey clouds were awaiting for him in the future. His mother had already been fighting with cancer, but he didn't imagine it would have ended that quickly. His father was alive and well, working in Oz like a spider in his net, trapping the other inmates without issues.

The last time Peter went to Italy, his own affairs were smooth as silk. Little did he know how quickly everything would turn into a landslide that would bring him to such a low point in his life, where everything he knew would be tossed and turned.

Alone, at last, disowned by his family, doing his best to fight the demons in his life and in his head.

   
 _"Tornerai, Molly?" Rispondeva: – Sì! / “Will you come back, Molly?” She said: - Yes!_

   
There's no place like home. What would he give to go back to Italy.

Just for once. Or maybe forever.

But probably,

never again.


End file.
